Divine Punishment
by lawngnomesorceress
Summary: Aziraphale has gone missing and Crowley is, unsuprisingly, not that worried. But Crowley isn't prepared for what happens when Aziraphale returns..
1. Stood Up

Disclaimer: I don't own Good Omens or any of the characters depicted herein.

It had been nine years since the Anti-Apocalypse. It had been nine years since A.J. Crowley and Aziraphale had directly defied the Ineffable Plan. Neither of them had heard a peep out of Heaven nor Hell since the little incident with the Anti-Christ. Heaven was busy finding jobs for thousands of now unemployed angelic warriors and Hell was frantically re-thinking its business strategy. It had been nine years that Crowley and Aziraphale had been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

To Crowley, this meant that whatever punishment Hell had cooked up for him was currently tangled up with the bureaucracy. Aziraphale simply thought that Heaven had forsaken him, and thus he had spent the last few years moping about his bookshop. He rarely took the time to thwart Crowley, as his heart simply wasn't in it. This had affected Crowley as well; without anyone to try and stop him, what fun was evil? It had always seemed to him that the angel was the only one to notice his various demonic deeds.

But things went on as usual. They still regularly met at the bench in Hyde Park to feed the ducks, they still went for lunch at the Ritz afterwards, and they still got absolutely blotto in the process. Today, however, was different. Crowley had been waiting in the park for over an hour. This worried him deeply, as Aziraphale was punctual to a fault. It was even more worrying since the demon himself had been over twenty minutes late.

Crowley threw another stale crouton at a duck in frustration. It beaned the duck on the head and flipped it upside down, its webbed feet paddling uselessly in the air. Crowley smiled faintly in satisfaction and resumed staring at his Rolex anxiously. He did not like to be kept waiting, even though he ended up sitting on that lonely park bench till well after sunset. After he had run out of croutons, Crowley resorted to throwing pebbles at the ducks.

The moon had risen well into the stars before he gave up and headed for the Bentley parked nearby. He flopped into the driver's seat and sunk into it dejectedly. Crowley had come to the realization that he had been stood up by _Aziraphale_. He briefly wondered whether breaking an appointment was a sin to angels and then decided to pay a visit to his tardy companion. Crowley was going to make sure Aziraphale didn't live this down for at _least_ several hundred years.

He didn't feel like driving tonight. The car started as if by itself and the engine purred steadily, a small comfort to Crowley. He lazily steered between the other cars, letting the Bentley languish in the surrounding traffic. Crowley didn't dare try to use the CD player. When he had switched from cassettes, all his CDs had begun metamorphosing into Oasis rather than Queen. Crowley eventually got used to driving in silence. There were only so many times you could hear "Champagne Supernova" and remain sane.

Soon, he was parked in front of Aziraphale's shop. He didn't think it was possible, but the shop actually looked dusty from the street. It also was dark inside; there didn't seem to be a single lamp, electric or otherwise, lit in the entire place. Crowley raised an eyebrow at this and practically slithered out of the Bentley. The door to the shop swung open in front of him and he strode nonchalantly over the threshold.

Crowley glanced about the shelves. The dust, as always, was undisturbed. He went further, back to what could be loosely described as Aziraphale's living quarters. A stone cold, half-full cup of tea sat on the table, next to a pile of first editions. _A Tale of Two Cities_ lay open on top of the pile, turned to the first page. To Crowley, it looked as if the angel had gotten an unexpected call from Above.

"_It could be awhile before he gets back_", Crowley thought to himself. He picked up _A Tale of Two Cities_ and set it on the table in front of him and began to read out loud.

"It was the best of times; it was the worst of times..." He paused and continued talking to himself.

"Well, I guess I can wait around a little longer for him." A gin and tonic appeared in his hand as Crowley leaned the chair back on two legs.

"After all, I've got all the time in the world, haven't I?"

To Be Continued...


	2. Spontaneous Combustion

Disclaimer: I don't own Good Omens or any of the characters depicted herein.

* * *

Crowley's chair teetered precariously on two legs and his gin and tonic sloshed about in its glass. _A Tale of Two Cities_ was still in his lap and he was reading it to himself drunkenly.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done...Bloody he- Honduras, how long have I been here?"

The bell over the shop door tinkled slightly and Crowley swung his head around to look, miraculously keeping his chair and drink from tipping over. He stared at the door, quizzically. He was sure he had heard the bell ring, yet nobody was there. He turned back to face the table when a slight breeze ruffled his hair. It was then he noticed the melted stubs of candles on the floor behind the table. Crowley leaned forward slightly to investigate.

It was then that all the candles suddenly lit themselves. Crowley wasn't surprised; he just had that sort of effect on things - spontaneous combustion, that is. Things just seemed to catch fire around him. Whenever he would sleep, he would inevitably dream. And if it was a really _good_ dream, he'd end up setting the sheets and maybe a few houseplants alight.

He had leaned back once again and was reaching for his book when another, stronger breeze circled throughout the room. Crowley, who was still obviously drunk, looked about the room with a comically exaggerated shifty eyed glance. The wind died down, and yet again, he relaxed back into his chair.

Therefore, poor Crowley was completely unprepared when a gale force wind began swirling about the shop, knocking his chair over and sending him gracelessly to the floor. All of poor Aziraphale's perfectly arranged books were blown off of their shelves and the ensuing dust cloud blinded Crowley. When he came to his sense and realized he didn't_ need_ eyes to see what was going on around him, he looked up at the table. In an instance of divine mistiming, the moment Crowley looked up, a cake batter and gardenia scented wind stuck him in the face. This was soon followed by a blinding, obviously holy light.

After he had stopped cringing horribly, Crowley looked up and saw Aziraphale sitting on the table, candles scattered about, legs akimbo, and hair in complete disarray. A vague look of surprise and amusement registered on his face before he spoke.

"For G- _somebody's_ sake, Aziraphale, cross your legs. I can see right up your skirt."

* * *

A/N I do appreciate good critiques. If you see any areas that need improvement, I'll be glad to listen. 


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